


The Road to Love

by MostlySane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, OC main character, Relationship Issues, Sibling Incest, dean is a leching lecher that leches, i fail..., i have so many regrets, i try to be purple and prosaic, love at first sight (sorta), more characters may appear, no black and white, oops i accidentally ficced, outlaws in love, pseudo-infidelity, rampant stupidity on the author's part, soap opera flavor, sucky title sucks, switching POVs, thieves, wanted dead or alive - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlySane/pseuds/MostlySane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is a bitch, Callum knows this well, but in America, hunting with the Winchesters, Life is a bitch who sometimes gives him candy...and sometimes kicks him in the crotch.</p><p>Love, guns, and hot guys. That should reel you in.</p><p>(I suck at this summary thing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I come before you as a humble fanfic writer, poor, and destitute, with nothing to my name but my laptop, on which I type this scribbling, my iPod, on which I gain inspiration for this scribbling, and this hotdog, on which I gain sustenance to write this scribbling.
> 
> So, I wrote this ages ago and published it on ff.net, but when I got no feedback, I gave it up. Then, I was looking over it again today, and remembered how much I loved writing what little bit I did, so I decided to move it here and see what y'all think. Is this worth continuing?

**Foreword by Callum Riley.**

**January 1, 2022**

Hello, my name is Callum Riley, and my father was Severus Snape. I never knew the man, and I never felt the need to. Maybe that's because, from what I can gather from my mother, I can be very much like him when I wish to. We even look alike. I know this from the picture I saw of his corpse on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. It seems a funny way to get to know your father's features.

We had the same tall figure, long, greasy, raven black hair, and sallow skin. I didn't have his eyes, no, those were my mother's. They were classic Riley eyes, one silver, and the other gold. In a weird juxtaposion to my nose, which was a touch aquiline, if you must know, and other severe features, I had a pair of plump lips; another gift from my Riley blood. My mother used to say I sounded like my father when she first met him. Of course, she only said that when she's batshite drunk, so I'm not sure she's to be believed.

Okay, so yes, my mom was an alcoholic…and a chain smoker…and a slut. But don't put on your sad face and start pitying me. That's not the point.

I'm not here to tell you some sad sob story about my sad sob-worthy life. No, I'm here to tell you the truth, and nothing but. Here are the actual, true facts about my life, so you can know the truth, and not the cockamamie shite that the newspapers try to feed you. It may not be the story you want to see, because it may not be half so clear cut, and clean, and black and white, and comfy-cushy as you'd like, but it's the truth, and it'll set you free and all that shite. So here it is…and don't complain if it doesn't go how you like. The world ain't like that, and as this is a story of the world, to some extent, why should it be any different?

**CHAPTER 1: In Which I Run Like Hell**

The Newt's Eye was a shady bar smack bang in the middle of a strip of shady bars. The whole establishment reeked of alcohol, smoke, unwashed bodies, urine, regardless of if one was in the vicinity of the restrooms or not, and partially digested food that had made an unexpected comeback.

One-eyed Joe, the bartender and owner of the place, was an unwashed, uncouth man of unknown and thus disreputable origins. He was huge, about 6'6, and hefty, with tons of muscles. And yes, he only had one eye. His best party trick was letting people stick their grimy little fingers into his empty eye socket. Whether or not I have done so as well is a story that will remain untold. But if I did, you can be sure I washed my hands thoroughly both before and afterwards.

But I digress. It was late, and the lightweights had all either passed out or staggered home. Only the good ole boys, the ones who could hold both their liquor and their own in a fight, were the ones left. I was settled in at table 6, the one in the back corner of the dim, smoky diamond shaped room. At the table was Jumpy Lou, with his nervous fingers tapping the grip of his glock, Mick, with his good natured, dimwitted grin and his terribly observant and malicious eyes, Mr. Li, with his quick little fingers and twitchy mustache, and Big Abe, from Moscow (this was all we knew of him, for it was almost all he could say in English).

It was nearing the end of the game, and I clutched my cards close to my face, peering over them to take in the expressions of the other players. I knew I was going to win; the only question was how much I could get out of these suckers when I did. I decided to do what I do best, get people so whipped up that they go out of their head and do stupid things…that benefit me, of course.

It was, easy, almost shamefully so, to carefully provoke the players into adding more to the betting pool. Even Big Abe got into the competitive spirit I had expertly worked up and had raised the stakes even more. Finally, when I stood to win a cool 5k, I decided it was time to reel 'em in.

Readying myself, and checking my weapons, I pulled in my traps with quick decisive moves. When I'd laid down the winning hand, I smiled lightly at their stunned faces and began to quickly but not frantically stash the money into my bag.

Just as I'd slid the next to last handful in, the silent and shocked stupor that had fallen over the room was broken by a shrill shriek of outrage from Mr. Li. His mustache twitched furiously, as did his left eyebrow. Big Abe was the next to make a sound, letting loose with an almost canine howl, his face red and contorted in anger.

I yanked the last handful towards me, but Mick's blade tore into one of the bills. I winced at the thought of the wasted money, but yanked my hand back quickly.

"Oh, so you want to keep that one? Yes, well, that's alright, then. I'll just leave you gents now, eh?" I said pleasantly, before overturning the table and running towards the door like the hounds of hell were on my heels, which, wasn't entirely untrue.

Running out of the bar, I dashed to the dark Benz car waiting at the end of the narrow street. Pulling the door open, I hopped in and slung my bag of cash onto the seat beside me.

"Make it 21 Liverpool, my good man!" I commanded glibly. The driver spun around, surprised.

"'Ey! This be the Guv'nor's lorry! Wha ya doin' 'ere?" He yelled in consternation.

"Dick? Izzat you? Well, that's a bloody relief! Look, chum, drive me there and forget you did, and I'll give ya five," I negotiated quickly with my old friend, shooting the bar a nervous look.

"Onny five pounds? Ya mus' be bloody jokin'" Dick squealed in disdain. I shook my head, flipping the greasy strands out of my face and shooting him a crooked grin.

"No, you misunderstood, good friend. I meant 500 pounds," I corrected. Dick's whole face changed and he was already stepping on the gas and pulling out as he shot me his famous gap-toothed grin.

"Wal! Tha's a darn sight better! Why'd ya not say so in tha beginin'?" He chuckled happily. I just shook my head, all too glad to be away from the guys I'd just hustled.

"So, Dick, what you been doing with yourself lately, huh?" I queried as I settled back into my seat. I might as well get comfortable for the ride. Dick scratched at his stubbly chin and squinted in concentration.

"Wal, I been drivin', ya know, for 'em rich folks, an' takin' me an odd job 'ere and there. Wha 'bout you, boy? Wha you been up to, 'sides hustlin' cash at places ya ain't got no right ta be at?" He asked, grinning back at me by way of the mirror. I shrugged with a dismissive twist of my mouth.

"Eh, not so bloody much. I ain't aimin' to kill nobody, and I can't drive too good, so I just stick to my hustlin'. It's what I'm good at," I shrugged again. Dick nodded sagely, pursing his slightly shriveled lips together.

"Yep, yer daddy was a mighty good 'ustler, 'e was! There wasn't nobody could beat 'im. You take af'er 'im good, boy?"

"Yessir, Dickie. Matter of fact, I even like to think I'd be able to beat him, if I tried bloody hard on a good day," I replied. Dick's heavy snowy eyebrows shot up on his forehead at my words.

"Izzat so? Tha's a mighty big thing ta claim, boy! Look, 'ere we are, but t'ain't nothin' 'ere, boy. Why'd ya wanna be 'ere?" He gave me a puzzled look. I shot him a devilish smirk as I hopped out the car with my bag of cash. Handing him the promised money, I shook my head teasingly.

"Ah, ah, Dickie! That's for me to know, and you to always wonder about!" I admonished. He drove off with a shrug and left me standing alone on the narrow cobbled street. I stared at the tall, slightly crooked building inhabiting the streets, seemingly empty and deserted. I smirked, as the illusion couldn't be more wrong.

Bracing myself, I walked into the building. The closer I got, the tenser I got. Finally, I walked into the dilapidated structure and made my way to one grimy, crumbling wall. I rapped on it a couple times in the right pattern. As it slowly began to scrape open, a drunken chant crept past the aged stone and met my ears.

"Hey ho, hey ho, there's Devil to pay and city to burn. Hey ho, hey ho, my soul be the price, and Heaven to scorn. Hey ho, hey ho, away with your conscience, and away with your heart!"

And the song started up again…

_TBC?_


End file.
